


The Council of the Apocalypse

by ImaginAria



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: and it's very real, there is a new apocalypse in town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaginAria/pseuds/ImaginAria
Summary: One Apocalypse failed. That means it's time for Plan B.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	The Council of the Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as me just trying to find a light-hearted way to approach our current very unfortunate situation. I thought others might appreciate this story as well.

At a small table in a greasy diner somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Southwest USA sat 4 people—or more, precisely, 4 things that more or less had the outward appearance of people. 

Not much had changed in the last year since the Apocalypse failed the first time round. they'd all come back just the same—War, Famine, Pollution and Death. Every present in the wake of humanity. And now they were here, taking time off, drinking tea, and bemoaning the state of the world.

“The Apocalypse would have been such fun,” War sighed, tossing her long red hair flippantly over one shoulder as she poured another dollup of honey into her thick, dark tea.

“More interesting than this, anyway,” Famine agreed, sipping his own tea, which was so watered down that it basically wasn't tea at all and more just bitter water.

“There hasn't been anything big since that,” Pollution slumped in their chair, teacup tarnishing in their hands and an oily film appearing on top, “Just the regular everyday events. And most humans don't even know what happened—that the apocalypse nearly happened.”

“At least they don't know that we lost,” War pointed out, the last word practically hissing out as she slammed her teacup down, nearly shattering it.

“Easy there, War,” Famine soothed, “Wouldn't want to break that fine bone china.”

War just glared at him.

IT IS A PROBLEM. The fourth member of their group, whose tea was getting cold, untouched next to him, finally spoke.

“My lord?” War asked.

MANY DEATHS WERE AVOIDED. MANY DEATHS WERE UNDONE. THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS ITS POUND OF FLESH AND IT IS OUR SWORN DUTY TO FULFILL THAT OBLIGATION. ESPECIALLY HERE. HUMANS HAVE GOTTEN COMPLACENT—THEY DO NOT FEAR THE WORLD AS THEY USED TO. 

“How?” War asked. The other three looked at her and she protested, “Don't look at me. War doesn't scare Americans anymore—they laugh about it. Their children play games based on it. And at the end of the day, they use drones and nobody from here dies. No, Americans love War far too much, they court it and its best practices, but nobody fears Death from it.” She nodded at said Horesperson, “Not until you're on the front; people dying all around you, but then you're out of the country and nobody cares.” War shrugged, “And nobody has the power to bring War here—not even me.”

“They're not scared of Pollution either,” that Horseperson oozed, “They embrace it—enjoy it. Or at least their big bosses do. And everyone else, well—they're indifferent to it at worst. It's a part of their lives they take for granted.”

“It's like that frog—you know?” Everyone stared at Famine, who suddenly looked nervous, “Where if you slowly raise the heat it dies? No? Okay—anyway Famine is a Fad here, and something everyone wants—diets and exercise until you slowly perish. They do not fear it.”

NO. WE NEED SOMETHING...OLD. SOMETHING THEY'VE FORGOTTEN, FROM LONG AGO.

For a moment there was silence as the three other Horsepersons slowly exchanged a glance, before they turned to face their Master and chorus, “Pestilence.”

...

On a hill, overlooking a dry, brown pasture, sitting on the stump of a tree that had died a long time ago was an old, old, old man. His beard was gray streaked with white, his leathery skin was covered in deep wrinkles, and his head was crowned by a moth-eaten straw hat. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, and every now and then he'd bring it up to his dry, cracked lips, and inhale before coughing, deep wracking coughs. Repeat ad nauseum. The only part of him that still looked vibrant and alive were his eyes—piercing and sharp, glowing with a sickly, fevered heat. 

He didn't turn when he heard footsteps crunch on the path behind him, just kept staring and smoking and coughing.

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME, OLD FRIEND. At that, he finally turned, cigarette dropping from his hand.

“Death! Old friend, indeed. Have you come for me at last?” His voice creaked, like it hadn't been used in a very long time, and he dissolved into a cough as he finished.

Death waited, eternally patient, for him to quiet again, NOT IN THAT SENSE. 

Death looked back at the other Horsepersons and nodded. Pollution stepped forward. They were holding an old wooden box, which instantly drew Pestilence's—for he it was—gaze. 

“We'd like to offer you your job back.”

Pestilence stared for a moment, and then shook his head, taking another draw on his cigarette, “Nonsense—you know them. The humans have vaccines for everything.”

“But they haven't been using them,” War stood next to Pollution, practically bouncing with excitement, “They're practically begging to have you back.”

“And,” Famine added, “We've found another recruit to help you.”

Pestilence raised a bushy gray eyebrow as the Horsepersons stood aside to reveal what appeared to be a waif of a child with long, tangled hair. As she looked up, Pestilence felt a chill run through the air—her eyes were dinner-plate wide with horror, her mouth gasping for breath...

“Allow us to introduce Panic.” Famine gestured to the girl, whose face shifted into a more normal expression as she nodded to Pestilence.

“We borrowed her from the Ancient Greek Gods,” Pollution added.

“And we think,” War finished, “That you and her together could, well...” she looked to Death.

CHANGE THE WORLD.

Pestilence thought for a moment, his bright eyes glimmering, before finally striding forward to take the box from Pollution's pale, slimy fingers and withdraw the silver crown from within.

It instantly tarnished in his grip, causing all of the other Horsepersons to grin—but then he snapped it in half and offered half back to Pollution, “We will share the...Opportunity.”

Pollution grinned and took the piece of crown back. As soon as they touched it, it transformed from half a crown into something more resembling a black diamond tiara. Pollution's piece mirrored this transformation, and he took off his hat and settled the headpiece into it's place.

“So, Boss,” he said, turning to Death and taking another drag of his cigarette, and smiling as he exhaled the smoke, “What's the plan.”

IT'S CALLED.

CORONAVIRUS.


End file.
